


the Master and Margarita

by Naraht



Series: trials of Coach Yakov [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1980s, Antisemitism, Cold War, F/M, First Meeting, First Time, Jewish Characters, Moscow, Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9814388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: In 1980, Yakov Feltsman is the USSR's skating hero. At a dull official reception, he defends his loyalty to the motherland – and makes the acquaintance of a beautiful young dancer from the Bolshoi.





	

"This is a diplomatic reception," repeated Yakov's coach in the back of the car. "As you know, you must be on your very best behaviour." 

"Oleg, I went to Lake Placid, didn't I? They've been letting me compete abroad for years now. I know how to behave around Westerners."

Yakov pretended that he hadn't noticed Oleg's searching gaze. Instead he looked out at the passing floodlit walls of the Kremlin, the last dingy patches of snow in the Alexander gardens. He could feel his annoyance building already, and they hadn't even arrived yet. He was twenty-six, after all, hardly a child. He was trusted in some measure, clearly. Oleg was only playing mother hen, as he always did. But this sort of lecture always gave him the suspicion that some more fundamental mistrust lay beneath it.

"Just remember," Oleg continued, "tonight is about international relations, not about sport. The invasion of Afghanistan, this boycott of our Olympics that the Americans are trying to organise. Don't expect the guests to give a damn about you or about skating. We've only been invited to provide... leavening."

 _Leavening,_ thought Yakov, his lip curling. _Without us, they'd be left with matzo. God forbid._

Unless they expected him to play Mata Hari with some embassy attache – which seemed unlikely on the face of it – he could not really see what on earth they wanted with him at this reception. He was too busy to pay attention to the war in Afghanistan; for that matter, he had little interest in the Summer Olympics, whether or not they were happening in Moscow.

Nonetheless the Soviet Union had taught him to skate, developed his talent from a child. It had given him a good life, letting him spend his days perfecting his spins and spirals on the ice instead of toiling in a factory like his father, and it allowed him to claim that he did it all for the glory of the Motherland. How could he refuse to dance to her tune when she called?

"If leaven is what they want, then that's what I'll be," grumbled Yakov. "Very diplomatic leaven."

Oleg laughed. "Yasha, you haven't a diplomatic bone in your body. Straighten your tie and do something about that hair of yours. We've nearly arrived."

He accepted the comb that Oleg produced from a pocket of his dinner jacket and swiped it grudgingly through his hair, wincing as it touched skin that had not been nearly so bare a few years ago.

_I'm going bald, aren't I? Foolish to deny it. Oh well, at least then I won't have to worry about combing my hair._

***

Light streamed from every window of the Pashkov Palace. Yakov stopped in awe for a moment in the middle of the courtyard, gazing upwards at the grand neoclassical facade. Around him, people moved onwards towards the open front door, splendidly dressed in tuxedos and gowns. It was as if he'd been transported to a pre-revolutionary ball.

Inside the scene was no less glittering. The ballroom, painted in shades of cream, was a two-storey space; chandeliers hung overhead and a full string orchestra played from the balcony. It was nearly full of dignitaries already. Waiters were circulating with trays full of champagne glasses.

Oleg put his hand on Yakov's shoulder as they entered the ballroom.

"Leavening, I remember," said Yakov in an undertone.

But Oleg's voice was now gentler. "We're not the only ones providing cultural enrichment, you know. Apparently they've invited some of the Bolshoi _corps de ballet_. The prettier ones, I would say."

Yakov quickly scanned the room. Oleg was right. Even in evening dress, a few women stood out from the crowd. The unearthly poise, the attitude of their bodies, that sense of taut power held in reserve – all of it was unmistakable. He should have noticed them from the start.

Only last night, he had gone to see the Bolshoi for the first time. Through some miracle, some sort of _blat_ – whether the sort belonging to coaches or to KGB informants – Oleg had found him a ticket. It had been one of the best nights of his life. And perhaps tonight wouldn't be so bad either.

"Admire," said Oleg, "but remember your responsibilities. You're not here to talk to them, and they're not here to talk to you."

Twenty minutes later, Yakov had changed his mind about the evening again. He had taken Oleg's exhortation seriously and done his best to mingle with the invited guests, only to find himself almost immediately buttonholed and cornered by the American third cultural attache. The man was a spy, obviously, or a propagandist, because what else would you do with a title like that? Carter hadn't sent him all the way to Moscow to spend his days at the Tretyakov Gallery and his nights at the Bolshoi.

It would have been easier to deal with, thought Yakov, if the man had been trying to seduce him in the physical sense. At least then one would have known what he wanted out of the conversation. 

Yet it was clear that the third cultural attache – McClellan, something like that, strange American name – had no personal interest in him. Nor did he have the slightest knowledge of ice skating. When Yakov had introduced himself to him, he had begun by attempting to make conversation about hockey. After the fiasco at the Winter Olympics, this was rather daring in itself – or it would have been, if Yakov had given a damn about hockey, which he didn't.

Conversation about sport exhausted, McClellan had moved on to politics, which was obviously his first love. He had spent most of the past twenty minutes attempting to pump Yakov for information about the condition of the Jews in the Soviet Union.

 _As if I were wearing a gold star on my lapel,_ thought Yakov, taking a deeper swallow of his champagne than he had intended. _These Americans are such hypocrites._

"I am just another citizen of the USSR," he insisted. "No more and no less. I compete for my country. I'm not religious. I don't think about these things."

In private he made as many dark jokes as anyone else. But that wasn't the point. He could not imagine standing on the podium under any flag other than the hammer and sickle.

"You must know that hundreds of thousands of your fellow citizens, your fellow Jews, have applied for exit visas over the past decade. We've pressed your government not to refuse them."

"What does that matter to me?"

"You've never considered...?"

"And skate for Israel?" scoffed Yakov. "Never."

McClellan gave him a thin smile. "Israel isn't the only country in the world."

"If you're suggesting that I feel no loyalty or love for my country, simply because I have Jewish blood..."

At that, McClellan quickly began to backpedal, but Yakov's blood was up.

"I am a proud Soviet!" he shouted.

Heads turned at that. Glancing quickly around the room, Yakov found himself momentarily catching the eye of one of the dancers from the Bolshoi, a very young woman who wore her dark hair in a severe bun. She looked disdainfully away. Yakov turned back to McClellan. But Oleg had already appeared out of nowhere and was quickly smoothing things over, without reference to him.

Finally Oleg took him firmly by the elbow and ushered him away. He said, with his usual quiet intensity, "Yasha, I'm tired of telling you. There is no place for your temper at official functions. Especially this one."

"You didn't hear what he..."

"I didn't have to hear," said Oleg. "I could guess. Be careful, Yasha. Please."

"I am careful. May I go back to the buffet now? If I promise to say nothing indiscreet to the picked herring?"

Oleg sighed. "Go. You'll be the death of me yet."

Yakov took his time on the way to the buffet, watching the people whirling on the dance floor. That young Bolshoi dancer was waltzing with the American ambassador. Good luck to her.

The buffet glittered almost more than the company. It was a glorious spread, the sort of food that you could only find in a hard currency shop, and even then only if you were lucky. Gathered together like this, it was second only to the unreal bounties of the A&P supermarket in Lake Placid.

Yakov took an orange and began peeling it thoughtfully. The scent was mouth-watering, but he could not keep his mind on it. He was remembering what had happened the previous autumn, when he had strolled by the river with his brother in Kolomenskoye Park. Mikhail had looked around them, waited until there were no other walkers in sight. 

"We've decided to go to Israel, Rosa and I," he had said. "If they'll let us have the exit visa. Mother and Father know already."

"So you didn't wait to discuss it with me first."

"We don't want to make things difficult for you, Yasha. We agreed to wait to apply – until after you stop skating."

Gusts of wind were coming off the river, bending the thin branches of the birch trees. Little yellow leaves blew across the path like small schools of fish. Mikhail studied him, clearly waiting for some sort of response. _I'll retire after the Olympics._ That would have been the sensible answer; it was clearly the one that Mikhail was expecting. But Yakov's tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and he said nothing.

"It's different for us," said Mikhail, the engineer, the husband of a doctor. "You're a Soviet hero."

"It isn't, Mishka," said Yakov, but he realised that the explanation would come across too wide a gulf. 

Instead he hugged his brother silently. "It's getting cold. Let's go back for dinner."

That had been early October. Now it was April, the end of the season. Yakov was twenty-six, and Mikhail and Rosa were still waiting. If he had won gold at Lake Placid, he would have retired straightaway. It was the one victory that would have made it impossible for the authorities to find an excuse to deny him the title of _Honoured Master of Sport of the USSR_. If he had won gold at Worlds, maybe... well, there was no point thinking about it now. He hadn't won, and here he was.

 _If I can learn to consistently land a triple axel,_ he told himself, _I still have a chance to win Worlds next year. After that, whatever happens, I can retire and be proud. Go into coaching or something, I suppose. Probably I'll be terrible at it._

"Does that orange not meet with your approval?" 

Yakov blinked, stared at the orange in his hand, still half peeled. He had been doing it without paying attention, and his hands were sticky with juice. He had no idea how he'd thought he was going to eat an orange gracefully at a formal reception. With a pang of regret, he laid it aside. Then he looked up at the speaker. It was the young ballet dancer from earlier. 

"I didn't want the experience to be over too quickly," he said.

"It's the most fun you'll have all evening."

"Is that true?" Up close, he thought he recognised her from the performance of the previous night, though she had only been in a minor role. "Lilia Baranovskaya, isn't it?"

She looked surprised to be recognised, only a member of the _corps de ballet_. She was staggeringly beautiful: heavy, jet-black hair, green eyes, and cheekbones so high that you could cut yourself on them. Most likely the same was true for her hipbones, if one could but get the chance to experiment.

"I saw you in _Sleeping Beauty_ last night," he added. "You were very good."

"I dance with the Bolshoi," she said. Subtext: _of course I'm good_.

"Yakov Davidovich Feltsman. I'm an ice skater."

He was on the verge of blustering embarassingly about Lake Placid before he saw a smile playing around the edges of her thin lips. She knew who he was. Of course she did.

"Was that American talking to you about defection?" she asked without ceremony.

Yakov studied her for a moment. Of course one couldn't be certain, but her surname, her looks... He took a guess, and a gamble.

"Exit visas," he said bluntly. "For which I do not intend to apply."

Her mouth formed an "o" of surprise and understanding. She gave him a conspiratorial look. In the midst of this crowded party they had found one another, their kinship not needing to speak its name.

"Neither do I," she said. "Our ballet is the best in the world. Who would want to go anywhere else?"

"Have you ever been abroad?"

"Never," she admitted. "Only as far as Riga."

He gestured towards the buffet table, groaning under the weight of the delicacies. "There was a supermarket in Lake Placid where you could buy all of this. More than this. Boxes of oranges for the taking, not even behind a counter."

She made a dismissive gesture with one bare shoulder. The movement of the arch of her collarbone was hypnotic. "It was a special shop. Just for the Games."

"I'm sure it was."

That was what his KGB minder had said, after he had finished telling Yakov off for slipping out to buy bandages. Maybe it was true – after all, the supermarket had been just down the road from the ice rink, exactly where one might expect Olympic athletes to stumble upon it. But he doubted it, and in any case they were not going to settle the question tonight.

"Are you just looking at the food?" said someone behind them. "Or are you going to take something else?"

Together they moved aside. He could see nothing but the startling green of her eyes. He supposed the obvious thing to do was to ask her to dance. The orchestra was playing a Viennese waltz, and he longed for the excuse to touch her. But it seemed too exposed, too cliched, too public. He looked above the dancers' heads, at the balcony where the orchestra was seated. Outside the ballroom, a grand staircase went up to it, and then beyond. Yakov had not explored yet, but he had a good idea as to where it might lead.

"Shall we go up to the roof, Margarita?"

Of course it was Woland and his retinue who had admired Moscow from the roof of the Pashkov Palace, not Margarita. But Yakov felt that the charm of the allusion made this slight distortion forgivable.

"Bulgakov," said Lilia Baranovskaya dismissively. "So much ink spilt about Pontius Pilate."

"I always skip those chapters," he admitted.

She tilted her head and studied him. "If I'm Margarita, is this Satan's Great Ball?"

 _How can it be anything else?_ thought Yakov, watching the American diplomats swirl and mingle. 

In answer he bent to kiss her hand. It was warm and dry, the tendons standing in proud relief. He thought he heard a gasp of response as she caught her breath, but perhaps it was his imagination. He glanced up at her, still holding her hand in his.

"My knee," she said, "if you please."

Yakov swallowed involuntarily, envisioning just this. _Am I such a sinner?_ he wanted to ask. But he knew the answer. Instead he said simply, "Not aching already?"

"The night is young."

And she turned her back on him and started for the stairs. Yakov followed.

***

It was strangely warm for April, as if a hushed breath of spring had gathered itself around the Moskva river. From the balustrade of the Pashkov Palace, they could see the glittering city spread out beneath them: the walls and spires of the Kremlin, distant skyscrapers, the darkened domes of imagined churches, and a few buses and cars making their way along wide avenues.

"An interesting city, Moscow," said Yakov. "But I prefer St. Petersburg."

Lilia was standing poised with both hands resting lightly on the balustrade, as if she were at the barre of a ballet studio. She looked away from the city to study him. "Do you go there often?"

Whatever Yakov had meant to say came to a screeching halt. "I – I train there. My coach is from St. Petersburg. We're only here for the week."

"Of course," said Lilia.

_I probably won't see her again after tonight._

Why the thought should affect him, he had no idea, for it had been obvious from the start. His home rink was in St. Petersburg, four hundred miles away, and she was the newest member of the Bolshoi's _corps de ballet_. If anything came of tonight – which, between the supervision of his coach and her ballet mistress, was unlikely – it would be both glorious and brief. 

Ordinarily he was not the sort of man to mind. At the Olympics he had not minded. Once finished competing, he had got to know a woman from the East German cross-country skiing team. After a few pleasant days – which he had mostly spent in admiration of her truly remarkable thighs – they had said goodbye to one another and flown home with good wishes and no regrets. That was the ideal, international solidarity at its best.

"I'll be back in December," he offered, "for the Prize of Moscow News. And maybe this summer, in the off season, if they let me, to see my family."

"I'll be on tour this summer. If they allow me to go."

A constraint had descended. In fact it had descended, ironically, as soon as they had left the ballroom together. After finishing with exit visas and Bulgakov, they had very little left to say to one another. Maybe he should have asked her to dance after all. It would have been simpler.

He racked his brain for ideas. He knew very well that no one would have called him a smooth conversationalist. His skating career had meant neither the time nor the need to develop any such skills.

Although he could have asked her about life at the Bolshoi – he would have liked nothing better – he was hesitant to sound like the sort of man who hangs eternally around stage doors because he has always dreamt of sleeping with a ballerina. He had enough of that sort of fan himself.

"Do you follow skating at all?" he asked, then kicked himself because that sounded even worse.

"I just got a television, but I hardly have time to watch. I used to skate myself, just a little, but it would be a pointless risk now."

She stood faultlessly erect, gazing out at the city below as if she owned it. Yakov leaned on the rail beside her. When she turned to look at him again, he realised that she, in her way, was trying as hard as him to keep their conversation afloat.

"Skaters do ballet, don't they?" she asked. "As training."

"We do. I started dancing when I was five, at the ZIL Culture Centre. I still take lessons. I love ballet."

"Show me," said Lilia. "Dance for me."

"Here? Now?"

Where had this gone wrong? Any other man surely would have asked _her_ to dance, which would have been both flattering (to her) and gratifying (for him). Instead he was about to make a fool of himself. He loved ballet, yes, he adored ballet. He went to the Kirov as often as he could get tickets. To his regret, though, his skating had always been more about muscular strength than artistry. He would never have made a dancer; he lacked the build for it.

Lilia Baranovskaya folded her arms and looked down her nose as if he, and not she, were the newest member of the _corps de ballet_. "Not if you don't care to," she said.

A shiver of desire passed through Yakov's veins. If she willed that he humiliate himself, then humiliate himself he would. He loosened his tie. He divested himself of his dinner jacket and draped it, as a gentlemanly gesture, around her bare shoulders. Lilia nodded, a smile playing about her lips, and put her hand to the satin lapel.

Yakov took his opening pose, his heart sinking. He was wearing dress shoes. He was not wearing a dance belt, a fact made more urgent by the undeniable level of interest he felt in the woman standing in front of him.

Nonetheless, he did his best. He danced his heart out for her.

"That was terrible," said Lilia finally, a hand held to her mouth to hide laughter – or delight. "I'm honoured. You looked perpetually surprised that you couldn't glide forwards on paving stones."

Remembering his ballet training, Yakov bowed from the waist, chest heaving from his exertions. Sweat prickled on his forehead and scalp, soaked the underarms of his dress shirt. He was grateful for the opportunity to catch his breath. 

"All of it equally terrible?" he asked, straightening up.

"I wouldn't have expected a _double tour en l'air_ from a man at your level."

High praise indeed. She might not have said it in so many words, but he knew she was impressed.

"My triple is much less balletic. But essential. And then it's that extra half rotation that makes the axel such a beast."

Now she was undeniably impressed. "You can do three and half rotations on the ice?"

"Yes."

 _Yakov Feltsman, you braggart._ He would not have put money on his ability to land a triple axel with Lilia watching, but he supposed it was not impossible. Perhaps with a little coaching from her...

He went to rejoin her at the balustrade. The mild April night now seemed chilly and forbidding, with his sweat cooling on his skin. He refrained from asking Lilia to return his dinner jacket; she would have obliged, but he knew the request would only win him scorn.

He cast a sidelong look in her direction, admiring the nobility of her profile, silhouetted against the lights of Moscow. The whiteness of her skin, fading into shadow beneath the hollows of her collarbone, half hidden by the jacket settled around her shoulders.

Lilia turned to look at him, raised her chin in challenge. "If you're going to kiss me," she said, "go on and do it before I get bored."

For the second time that evening, for the second of uncountable times in his life, Yakov gladly submitted to the will of Lilia Baranovskaya.

Her lips might have been thin, but they were soft and warm, and welcomed him in.

"Tonight," she said breathlessly, when she finally broke away, "I came with the rest of the _corps de ballet_. I'll have to leave with them. Soon."

"Then..." said Yakov.

"Yes," said Lilia. 

The fingers of one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, she lifted her leg, remaining poised for a moment in a perfect _attitude devant_. If it had not been for the constraint of her skirt, she could easily have rested her ankle on his shoulder. Instead she wrapped her leg around his waist. 

Yakov turned to press her against the balustrade. He kissed her again. Then he reached for the zip of his trousers.

***

_Twenty minutes later..._

"Yasha," said Oleg, "where the hell have you been?"

"Mingling," said Yakov. "Listen, Oleg, I've decided something. In the off season, I want to work on my ballet."

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in April 1980, two months after the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid. The context is the Soviet Union's invasion of Afghanistan in December 1979, which led to the [American-organised boycott](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1980_Summer_Olympics_boycott) of the 1980 Summer Olympics (held in Moscow in July). 
> 
> This was also at the [height of the emigration](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1970s_Soviet_Union_aliyah) of [Jews from the Soviet Union](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Refusenik).
> 
> It seems very likely to me, if not quite canon confirmed, that Yakov and Lilia are both Jewish. Yakov has a very Jewish name; Lilia is partially modeled on Maya Plisetskaya, one of the Bolshoi's greatest prima ballerinas, who was Jewish. And 'Baranovskaya' is also often a Jewish name in Russia.
> 
> An informative article on [Jews in sport in the USSR](http://www.yivoencyclopedia.org/article.aspx/sport/jews_in_sport_in_the_ussr).
> 
> An article from 1980 about [professional athletes in the USSR generally](http://www.csmonitor.com/1980/0415/041531.html).
> 
> Yakov and Lilia are flirting using allusions to Bulgakov's classic novel _The Master and Margarita_ , which obviously provided the title for this fic, and does indeed include the Pashkov Palace as the site for a key scene.
> 
> The first triple axel was landed in competition in 1978, but this was the only one for a few years. [None of the men at the 1980 Olympics performed a triple axel.](http://www.goldenskate.com/forum/showthread.php?7748-Flashback-to-the-1980-Winter-Olympics)
> 
> There is no mention of condoms during Yakov and Lilia's encounter because I think it's unlikely that they would have used them. Contraception was not easy to come by under the Soviet Union.


End file.
